


to sleep, perchance to dream

by salemslot



Series: kid fics [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Child Neglect, Childhood Friends, Feelings Realization, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Halloween, Homophobia, Kid Fic, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 17:17:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14981852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salemslot/pseuds/salemslot
Summary: October 31st, 2006: Ian knew he loved Mickey.





	to sleep, perchance to dream

**Author's Note:**

> tw: slurs, homophobia, implied abuse, violence and blood, child injuries  
> (the fighting is between minors)
> 
> To clarify: Ian is eleven and Mickey is twelve. Mickey's a little softie and emotional in this because he has eVERY right to be! I don't consider it ooc, especially not in the circumstance.
> 
> All mistakes are mine. Anything else that seems weird is 'cause of me too. Excuse my SHITTY edit.

 

********

 

October 31st, 2006

Mickey ran his fingers across a long chain link fence that wrapped around the perimeter of Mrs. Burgess’s yard. Occasionally, his hand would dance along the paper jack-o-lantern chain tied to either end. The whole thing fluttered until it bobbed back into place when they left the fence behind and he found something new to get distracted by in Clyde Kebris’s lawn. Ian was struggling to walk beside him with his thrift store lab coat hanging off his small frame and getting caught under his shoes.

It was still light outside. Mickey’s greasy black hair looked blue at dusk. His skeleton makeup was melting in heat that was unusual for this time of year. Ian wanted to reach over and wipe the smudge coming from his black eye socket off his white cheekbone, but Mickey would bat his hand away or try to bite his fingers. He gripped his candy-filled pillowcase tight and slung it over his shoulder instead.

Mickey glanced over at him at the sound of cellophane rustling and immediately broke out into a crazy grin. He ran his thumb over his lip and laughed into his shoulder.

“What?” Ian sighed.

“Your fucking eyes, man,” Mickey giggled, his voice fruity and higher pitched than Ian’s, touched with a bit of street.. Ian liked it. Hearing it made him smile immediately, no matter what came out of Mickey’s mouth. It reminded him that Mickey was right beside him instead of speaking briefly on the house phone like they’d done so many times that past summer. He rarely saw Mickey in person and Mickey didn’t exactly want to share what his dad was making him and siblings do past state lines. Ian was just giddy to have him around again.

Somehow he made a successful attempt not to smile this time. He sucked hard on the inside of his cheek, rolled his eyes, and adjusted his large, square, coke bottle glasses that kept sliding down the bridge of his nose. “I thought you got it all out back at my house.” Ian groaned.

“They’re fucking enormous!” Mickey exclaimed, flashing his gapped front teeth like he was trying to make enough room for a descending plane to land on them. “You look like the Trailer Park Boys guy, Gallagher, Jesus.” Ian whacked him half-heartedly with his sack and Mickey shoulder-checked him in return. Ian smiled at his shoes. “It’s a good thing,” Mickey added after a couple beats of silence. “A mad scientist is a funny costume ain’t it? Supposed to make people laugh, or else why’d you make me put a buncha handfuls of gel in your hair to get it to stand up like that before we left?”

Ian touched his wild, orange mane that protruded in twenty directions. His cheeks grew warm.

“If you wanted to look all sophisticated and stupid like your brother during science fairs, I’d be stuck with a sad lame douchebag,” Mickey explained. He dug into his _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_ pillowcase and pulled out a packet of M &Ms. He tore it with his teeth and spit the paper out before dumping half of them in his mouth. “I like this look better,” he pursed his lips over his candy and pushed into Ian. His small way of assuring him that no, he didn’t look stupid. His excessive stressing this week to make sure he looked right in his costume was for nothing.

Ian’s face grew even warmer, so much so he was sure it was as red as his hair. His smatter of freckles were vibrant enough to be seen even when they walked in dark pockets of the neighborhood. Ian tried to distract himself by eyeing the plastic, dead witch hanging off Roger Spikey’s chimney. Mickey spit blue saliva into Roger’s crabgrass and Ian chuckled. “Donkey dick owes me ten bucks,” he shrugged by way of explanation.

The streets were oddly crowded and lively around them. Canaryville had a large population of kids but a low trick-or-treating demographic. Everyone knew the North side gave out the best shit. Chump politicians threw public events. Churches could afford to keep up trunk-or-treat traditions. For the older crowd, parties were wild and rampant when they were thrown by trust fund kids. Mickey’s older brothers would cruise parties every year to sell dope. Rich kids would pay anything for a baggie of oregano if you could convince them they could get a supreme high off of it. His brothers left Mickey with the Gallaghers and Mandy to go out with her weird Girl Power group she joined at school to learn to cooperate with peers without hitting or kicking.

Ian was overwhelmed with the amount of Spidermen, princesses, zombies he’d seen scamper across the roads squealing with laughter, or stomping pumpkins in. The spirit vibrated through the neighborhoods like the air was charged. Ian’s arm hairs stood on end. The Monster Mash playing through someone’s open door and fog leaked from someone else’s porch. There sat a skeleton in a rocking chair near the door holding a bucket of candy.

Ian had always had fun because he’d been spending Halloween with Mickey since they’d met. It was an unspoken rule they’d spend it together. Fiona hadn’t bothered to ask if they were joining her and the kids or Lip and his buddies. It was Ian and Mickey’s holiday. It belonged to only them and was the commencement of a year. The remaining months would be miserable with Fiona scraping together tips to buy the kids shit for Thanksgiving and Christmas. She wanted ease good memories in so they could fill other voids in their childhoods. It was alright most of the time, but every year when Halloween was good and done, he felt an ache that clung to his skin and wouldn’t leave until the new year came. Only then he would stop obsessively thinking about where Monica was and if she was alone and sad, or if she thought of them when Christmas songs started playing on the radio.

Happiness was effortless on Halloween. It came as easy as breathing and he felt it from the curls on his head to his sweaty socks. He thought about nothing but Mickey, candy, and the gel melting onto his forehead.

“Do your eyes hurt?” Mickey asked later after he pissed in a storm drain and pulled out a new candy he hadn’t bothered to check for poison or razor blades. He _insisted_ the poisoned candy dilema was bullshit. It was a simple scare tactic because kids didn’t understand the threat of obesity quite yet. He was either correct or he’d ingested loads of cyanide already but he was still alive because he was a total badass.

“My eyes hurt a little, yeah,” Ian admitted. Mickey always smiled like the left side of his upper lip was being tugged by an invisible string. Ian’s heartbeat picked when he saw it, painted over with thin vertical lines to look like teeth.

“Why’d you get real ones?”

“They were the only ones on the rack at the thrift store!”

Mickey offered an impassive look. “Take ‘em off. Let me wear them,” he demanded and reached his hand toward Ian’s face. Ian scoffed and slapped it away.

“Why would I do that?”

“If you get a headache you’ll get all grumpy later, doofus. Then you won’t want to play Mortal Kombat with me. We put off yet another match ‘cause you’re secretly afraid of getting your ass whooped and you can’t fucking face total annihilation like a man,” Mickey explained more with his hands than his words. “Then, I gotta deal with your pissing and moaning all night when I’m tryna sleep: ‘Fiiiionnnaa my big fat head hurts! Could you massage it until I fall asleep?’” he mocked, dramatically throwing his head back and faking tears. “You’re not fun to be around when you’re moody, dude.”

Ian sputtered. He was definitely not afraid of Mickey’s average gameplay and he didn’t sound like that when he was in pain. He was the victim of frequent migraines and Mickey had the nerve to _laugh_? Plus, he most certainly did not get  _moody_. Getting moody was for chicks, like Mandy when her brother's tried to convince her she was a botched abortion, or Fiona when her boyfriend of the month dumped her.

Mickey snatched his glasses off his face and skipped ahead of him. His running shoes were beating on the pavement and his box of Nerds rattled in the front pocket of his overalls.“Steal ‘em back now, pussy!” he called over his shoulder as he weaved through a group of older girls ahead of them. They were disgruntled as he knocked into their fairy wings and buckets of candy.

Ian swore and set off to chase him, his candy bag smacking his back as he trotted around the group. “Mick, you’re not fucking funny! Give them back before you break them!” he complained.

“And cheat you outta five fucking bucks?” Mickey smirked. He squeezed the glasses in his fist as he ran with his arms swinging and head swaying. He was having the jolliest time playing cat and mouse, but Ian was faster than Mickey and caught up to him easily.

“Yes!” Ian panted. “I mowed Mrs. Neiderider’s lawn to get these. I didn’t fucking slave away for two hours weaving around her thirty birdhouses for nothing, asshole.”

“Wait, that old bitch that checks out your brother when we play kickball off Sawyer?” Mickey held the glasses behind his back and moved with Ian’s movements so he wouldn’t snake behind him.

Ian grabbed Mickey’s forearm. He tore out of Ian’s grip and rolled his body back when Ian wrapped both his arms around him to reach for the specs. “Mickey, c’mon. It’s not funny!”

Mickey laughed heavenward and held the glasses above his head. Ian hugged his middle and pushed him against a fence. Mickey wiggled in his grasp and managed to turn around in Ian’s arms so his belly was pressed against the chain link. He slipped the glasses on his face. Ian busied himself kneeing Mickey’s butt over and over until he was elbowed off. Ian whined in pain and held his ribs where he got the breath knocked out of him. “Fucker!” he swore. Mickey turned and playfully shoved his shoulders, giggling when Ian punched his nipple. “You fuckhead!” he winced. “As long as I don’t have a headache, right?!”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “You had your bony knee shoved in my asshole. It was self-defense.”

Ian glanced up at his friend. He had his arms crossed and he was leaning against the fence with a hint of a smirk playing on his face. There was a wicked gleam in his huge eyes behind the magnifying lenses of the glasses. They were so bright blue and reflective under the street lamps, against the contrasting black that surrounded them. Ian was a little afraid, but mostly in love. The kind of love he felt when he was sleeping on his mom’s lap after not seeing her for a month. When Fiona aggressively wiped the dirt off his cheeks after Ian got into a fight. When Lip sat with him in bed and read to aloud when Ian used to get nightmares.

_Love._

Ian dug is nails into his skin through his shirt and willed his lungs to open up before he fainted.

Mickey crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out and Ian laughed, still breathless. “Can we continue now? You done, Raggedy Anne?”

“Just don’t break ‘em,” Ian mumbled after a moment of silence. He was mostly relieved that he could actually see and when he looked down there were two feet and not six. They moved together again and Ian tried not to think of how reliant he was on his best friend and ways he made him feel. He swallowed a confusing thought and it left a trail of fire going down his throat.

“Let’s cross to 25th.” Mickey tapped Ian’s arm and moved to the other side of the street. Ian batted his worries away and followed.

“We passed twenty houses and we haven’t tried any of them, Mick.”

Mickey made a face and his upper lip was pulled by the invisible string again. “Uh yeah, cause I know where all the good shit is around here and this parts got nothin’ but Heath bars and roaches. Didn’t I tell you to shut up and keep up?” Ian stuck out his chin and frowned. Mickey raised his brows. “Would you just trust me?”

“How good is good?” Ian questioned.

Mickey tossed him a look. “Good, Gallagher. I know some assclowns that still leave out ‘take one’ buckets. We’ll be loaded before the night is out. Quit being a weenie.”

Ian bit his tongue. If they went back to his house now it’d mark the  _End of Something._ That ominous thought that was written in red jagged letters in his mind. It grew closer like a horror movie title whenever he was out having fun. Even though Mickey was going to spend the whole night with him, if he bailed now this would be it, and that endless feeling that he held onto on Halloween would prove to have an ending after all. He was afraid of that like he was afraid of Mickey being able to tell that the only thought in Ian’s head, that rung loud like a city bell whenever they were together, was _love love love._

“Why do you care so much about these things anyway?” Mickey slid the glasses off his face and tucked them in his overalls pocket. “Is it really cause of the money?”

“Nah,” Ian admitted. “I just look like the pope without them on. They make the whole costume. It sucks they’re prescription.”

Mickey choked on his spit and smiled wide against his shirt sleeve. “Coat does look a little like a robe... but hey, you make a damn good pope without them like you make a good scientist with them, trust me.” Ian smiled like a loser. “I’m honored to be seen with Your Horniness,” Mickey added. Ian’s smile dropped.

“Holiness,” he corrected.

Mickey waggled his eyebrows and took another slap on the shoulder.

They rounded a corner and flipped off some kids they knew dressed like Marvel characters smoking on the side of La Chiquita. “Let’s try this fuckhead. He passes out joints sometimes,” Mickey gestured with his pillowcase toward an old white house that looked as gloomy and in need of repairs as anyone else’s. Its front door was wrapped in caution tape and white cotton webs. He could hear The Doors playing from the open windows.

“Who is this?” Ian pulled adjusted his coat so it stopped sliding off his shoulder.

“Bryan Schuster.” Ian nodded.

They walked up groaning steps and were met with an old gray cat licking itself peacefully on the front porch sofa. Mickey pet it between the ears and it lifted its head and leaned into Mickey’s palm.

“Isn’t that Killer?” Ian wondered while knocking hastily on the door.

Mickey nodded, confirming it was the same cat that frequented the Milkoviches and played with the family’s leftover chicken bones after dinner.

A girl answered. She was tall, older than them, and dressed like an angel with a halo attached to small wires that bobbed over her golden hair. Ian thought she was pretty, but not like Lip would have thought if he was here with them. Ian saw of most girls like he saw his sister, and he was pretty sure that wasn’t normal.

“Your brother here?” Mickey asked over the sound of “Strange Days."

She narrowed her eyes at him and clutched her cup to her chest. “He’s not giving any freebies to nine-year-olds, sorry.”

Mickey ignored the jab, but his nostrils flared. “We’re Lip and Iggy’s brothers. He knows what’s up. Can you get him, please?” His eyebrows flying to his hairline.

She scoffed and shook her head, the golden tinseled halo wiggling maddeningly. “Nice try, brats. Maybe when you’re taller than where my tits hang. Take your little mortician friend and get off my porch.” She closed the door hard and startled Killer from his spot on the sofa. He made a low chirp sound and sauntered down the stairs.

“He’s the pope, bitch!” Mickey defended and swore under his breath. He stomped down the stairs and mocked her with his tongue out. Ian followed, somber and offended.

“Like we need them. I can score coke from the guy at the pool supply store across the street, let alone a goddamn joint.”

Ian caught up, albeit slowly. “Do I really look like a mortician?” Ian whined.

“A little.” Mickey shrugged, exasperated. “But it’s cool. It’s spooky. Will you shut up?”

Ian pouted and looked away. He knew he was being stupid about his costume, but he'd been excited for it for two damn months just to look like Mickey’s lame sidekick when the night came. He thought about last year when he was the Frankenstein monster and Mickey wore a striped shirt and pants. He borrowed handcuffs Iggy stole from an interaction the fuzz to look like a prison inmate. That year Mickey got all the disapproving looks and Ian was complemented by everyone and their mother. He guessed it was fair to get the short end of the stick now.

Mickey threw an arm around Ian’s shoulders and pulled him in. Ian’s stomach flipped when Mickey gently grabbed a handful of his hair. He didn’t know when he started paying attention to it, but Mickey smelt like stale cigarettes, crayons, and a golden retriever laying out in the sun. He liked it a lot.

“Don’t go crying on me. I gotta dominate you in MK first. Save the tears until then.” He bumped his head against Ian’s temple.

Ian snorted. “In your wildest dreams, butthead. I get to be Quan Chi.”

Mickey stuck out his upper lip and shrugged. “Fine by me. I’m Sheeva, always.”

“You just like her cause she has four arms and big juggs,” he pointed out.

Mickey nodded and simpered. “Exactly what I want in a girl.”

Ian laughed but his smile disappeared when Mickey looked away to dig through his bag for more sweets. “Winner gets to pick the movie, right?” Ian asked.

“Mhm. If you get lucky we could end up poppin’ in some shitty Van Damme flick.” He pressed his tongue on the inside of his cheek and open a box of Dots. He gave Ian the green ones.

“It’s not shitty if it’s _Double Impact_ ,” he argued. It wasn’t. Ian’s probably seen _Double Impact_ a hundred times and it took him five watches to realize what made the movie so genius. It was the lead actor and the funny feelings whenever he came on screen, sweaty and ripped. Ian hadn’t seen it for a few months, because the last time he got a headache from trying hard to get ahold of himself and the strange things happening to his body while his brothers were on either side of him on the couch. He’d been too afraid to watch it since his feelings started becoming more than feelings. They turned into physical evidence.

“You’re just gonna ignore the brilliance of _Hard to Kill_ ?” Mickey stepped in front him and stopped him in his tracks. “A man’s majestic ponytail was on the line and you don’t give two shits because you’re hard for some mediocre juice head?” Mickey narrowed his eyes and poked Ian hard in the chest. “Unbelievable.”

Ian swore Mickey could read minds and it was that moment he decided not to choose _Double Impact_ if he won tonight. “Segal could totally kick Van Damme’s ass,” he insisted.

“Probably,” Ian admitted. He was sort of in a daze now. He felt kind of nauseous at the thought of Mickey being able to tell how he felt about some guys. _Some guys._ Guys like Van Damme and Justin Timberlake and, maybe Roger Spikey...only a little, and an old boyfriend or two of Fiona’s, and Mickey. Fucking _Mickey._

He couldn’t compare the way he felt around his best friend to any other fraction of a buzz that started around other boys.

Mickey was like vibrations against the wall in his room when Lip played cock rock too loud. It was words being so heavy they floated above his head like physical things and Mickey caught every single word he spoke and held onto it. Mickey felt like the worst kind of stomach ache and the kind of longing that comes after Monica leaves without saying goodbye. Mickey made him feel as scared as when Fiona had serious talks with him when his grades were low and as good as it felt to smoke a quarter of a joint when he was ten and it was well past his bedtime. He felt like Halloween. He felt like a chest full of love, too small to hold so much. Love hardly released, but when it was it felt as good as falling asleep when the sun rose after staying awake all night.

Ian didn’t know what to make of any of it. He didn’t know what true love really meant. He wasn’t even sure if what he was feeling would last or if it was so intense now because Mickey was his only real friend. If they grow older and grow apart he’ll realize it was just appreciation for someone who cared so much.

He didn’t know how to describe his emotions with words but he could compare them to things just as impactful. Maybe if he told Fiona or Lip they’d help him figure out why he was anxious and sick lately and if liking boys was so terrible that he was being punished. He couldn’t talk to them though. He could never tell anyone. Maybe when he and Mickey were much older, and if Mickey still talked to him over the phone for thirty minutes every night before bed as usual. If they were still that close, he could tell him how he felt when he was eleven years old and Mickey was everything.

Ian was pretty stupid about this. His only references being his own sad excuse for parents and Fiona’s failing relationships. Sappy movies that Mandy watched confused him even more. All of them featured a man and a woman. His only knowledge of boys being with boys came from the gruesome stories Lip told his friends about catching guys in the cabins at summer camp and overhearing Mickey’s dad speak freely about how it’s the worst thing to happen to the human race since the Ice Age.

And Ricky Martin. He knew about Ricky Martin rumors, too.

Ian knew if he didn’t fix himself soon he’d die a sad virgin after bleeding out on the street cause someone tried to bash the queer out of him.

They walked around on Springfield near the elementary school. Mickey kept all his tubes from the tubed M&Ms and insisted they make pop rockets out of them in the morning to give the hungover bastards something to look forward to. They stopped by a couple more houses, but it was enough candy. They nearly got to a point where they needed a wheelbarrow. They each took turns carrying both the bags to give the other guy a rest. Ian thought holding them to his crotch like they were massive nuts was grade A comedy and Mickey shoved him until he fell over and used his own candy bag to break his fall.

Ian wasn’t one for vandalism, that usually fell to Mickey, but he did kick a few pumpkins while Mickey had a field day stomping them and flinging the guts off his shoe at Ian. They were so hopped up on sugar, Ian was bouncing circles around Mickey. Mickey’s eyebrows were flying all over his white-painted forehead. His arms waved around in dangerous circles when he spoke about the Sox’s last season, and he barely even watched any of the games that year. It was enough to distract Ian. He had barely remembered an end would eventually come when they thrummed like an unstoppable machine chugging through the alleyways together.

After it turned ten, things quieted, or, the Halloween festivities did.

“We should turn back,” Ian cautioned. “Fiona will have our asses if we aren’t back in the next twenty minutes.”

Mickey rubbed his eyebrow and took some white with him. He has sweated off a lot of his makeup. It clung to his peach fuzz and stained his face so the patches of skin that showed looked dirty like he’d come back from coal mining. His lips were cracked and covered in chocolate. Ian could say he looked pretty fucking cute.

_Not cute. Stupid. He looked stupid._

“Yeah okay. Just a couple more stops.” Ian’s shoulders sagged. “Okay, no, no. You’ll thank me. Kooky bitch has full-size candy bars. Ian, we can’t pass up such an opportunity.” He reached blindly for Ian’s arm to pull him and Ian swatted him until Mickey looked over his shoulder at him and grinned. He pulled Ian under his armpit and made him stumble to his side. “Come on, I told you not to be a weenie.”

They cut through between buildings and Mickey babbled about Sheeva’s huge knockers to distract Ian from how spooky and damp it was. Ian was pretty sure Mickey had a pocket knife in his pillowcase, so he wasn’t as anxious as he would be. It didn’t hurt that Mickey was rubbing Ian’s curls and speaking low right into his ear, his breath fanning over the shell, making goose pimples break out all over Ian’s body. Even if it was about computer animated boobs. “Alright, up here, red house.” He smiled when they stepped into the light again. Lots of houses still had their lights on. Fires were going in a few front yards and they were crowded with people that looked pretty sloppy for ten pm. “Come on gingerbread. No one's gonna eat ya.”

“Isn’t this where your brother’s hang out?” Ian asked, a little timid. He was only eleven, after all, and Mickey was strong and fast but he couldn’t save him from mean drunks with gang tattoos.

“Sure,” Mickey nodded. “They know some guys up here.”

“Someone has full candy bars _here_?” Ian couldn’t believe it. This block was a fucking cesspool. Mickey’s brothers sold here and Fiona scored under the table jobs emptying old septic tanks not two streets over.

“An old lady,” Mickey explained. “Real batty bitch, but she’s like everyone’s favorite grandma with dementia. Every year she buys the entire candy and gum section at every mini-mart from here to the canal.” Ian still wasn’t so sure. They walked past hoards of people heckling trick-or-treaters, and someone’s uncle spewing chunks into a punch bowl. Mickey didn’t pull his arm away from Ian. “You okay?” he asked after a beat. Ian was stiff as a board.

“Uh huh.”

“Don’t be chicken, man. You’re a mortician-pope-mad scientist. There’s nothing you fear.” He patted him.

“I’m not chicken,” Ian snapped, and he wasn’t. He didn’t like being reduced to the kid brother and weak friend that needed protection all the time. There was this constant battle of whether he should be sweet or vicious, and if one would get more attention than the other on different days of the week so Ian wouldn’t fade into the background, everyone else’s personalities overpowering his.

Ian could be mean. He could go apeshit on some guy if they fucked with him. He broke a kid’s leg just last year for talking shit. It was sort of an unfair fight, and Ian took cheap shots, but it counted. Maybe Mickey acted quicker in dangerous situations and Lip could outsmart people, but Ian could hurt. “I’m fine,” he added, quieter.

Mickey cocked an eyebrow and put a hand in the air, surrendering. “Didn’t say you were chicken. Said don’t be. I don’t think you are, tough guy,” he smiled. “Chill.”

“I’m chill,” Ian sighed, cooling down.

Mickey laughed softly and Ian felt his warm breath burst across his cheek. It smelled like tootsie rolls and it made him a little dizzy. Ian turned his head so their mouths were inches apart and looked down at Mickey’s chapped white lips. His big teeth were peeking out between them. He swallowed hard thinking about what would happen if he just stopped thinking so much and filled the space between them until their lips brushed. He'd feel it out and see what it was like to be that close to someone, to see if it was weird or nice to touch mouths and noses, to see what the big deal was. He wondered if Mickey would still like him or like him even more if he tried. Was it worth getting his teeth knocked out by his best friend. Probably not.

“What?” Mickey mumbled. His breath tickled Ian’s nose.

Ian breathed out and drew back. “Um, you have chocolate on your teeth,” he blurted. His neck grew hot and the cracks of his palms were sweating.

Mickey broke out into a big smile that stretched the paint on his face hard enough to leave lines. He showed off the chocolate in the cracks of several teeth and wiped them with his thumb, then rubbed it on Ian’s lips.

Ian squealed and wiped his face with the sleeve of his coat. He bent over a bush and spat in it while scrubbing his mouth hard enough for it to swell. “Mickey, that’s so fucking disgusting! I fucking hate you!” he cried.

He pushed him away when he tried to console him. Mickey managed to get his arms around Ian from behind and rest his cheek on Ian’s shoulder while Ian squirmed. “You’re so goddamn gross! Fuck off. Why would you do that?” Ian tried to shove him but they were both giggling too hard and Mickey’s grip was snug around his belly.

Neither of them noticed the four guys holding beers in their hands, strolling by on the street beside them until Ian heard a low, mean voice jibe at them from a short distance. Mickey’s arms loosened around him.

Ian turned around, tripping over the bottom of his coat. Mickey was looking over his shoulder at them— _them_ , Will Rawlins, Ace McClure, and the others they prowled the streets with. They were Colin and Joey’s age, upperclassmen at John F. Kennedy.

They stood tall and broad, clad in half-assed bloody costumes downing beer like water. Will, with his plastic Michael Myers mask pulled off his face and nestled in his cropped bleach hair, raised angry eyebrows at Mickey and crushed his empty can in his fist.

“The fuck you say?” Mickey bit out. Ian was struggling again, between sweet and vicious, between worrying about the time passing before they had to be home and the fire that pushed him to stand strong beside Mickey.

Will tossed his can. “You fucking deaf? I said go pack each other’s shit on another side of town. Nobody wants to see that around here, Milkovich.” His friends snickered. Will made his way over toward the two boys. He sounded just like Mickey’s dad on a regular weekday morning when he caught the boys laying together. It stunned Ian to hear the older boy talk like that nonetheless. Now he was moving closer with a confident gait like nothing could stop him from creaming them.

Mickey could do nothing but stand stock still. His expression was unreadable, maybe a little nervous. That scared Ian.

It wasn’t until Will and his lemmings stopped a foot away from them did Mickey find his voice. It was a little uneven, but it was loud. “We’re… we’re not fucking fags. Don’t you have something better to do than bother kids? Go get molested by your dad or something, creep.”

Will shoved Mickey so hard he stumbled into Ian and the back of his skull hit the hard cartilage of Ian’s nose. Ian yelped in pain and keeled over. He felt warm blood drip on his hand. His candy bag was ripped from him, and he looked up and spotted Ace sneering and digging through it, offering some to the others.

Mickey ran shoulder-first into Will’s chest and Will kneed him hard in his soft stomach. Mickey curled up and cradled his abdomen, struggled to breathe before he landed flat on his ass. His candy spilled across the sidewalk.

“Give it back!” Ian yelled, reaching for his own candy that was being held out of reach and tossed between guys. Ian was frustrated to the point of tears.

Mickey was panting on the ground and writhing from one side to the other. His knees were drawn close to his torso and his hands were full of his overalls, clutching them tight. After a moment he hacked, spat on the ground and mustered up the energy to get up with wobbly knees. Ian was being grabbed and pushed around Will stood off to the side and watched bemused at Mickey’s effort to rise.

“Give him back his fucking bag, assholes!” Mickey wheezed, reaching for it and being met with the same fate as Ian. Will intervened and yanked Mickey by his shirt like he weighed nothing.

“Easy, queer-bo,” he chastised, voice calm and unnerving.

“We’re not fucking queer!” Mickey roared, hitting Will weakly with this sides of his fist and getting roughly manhandled in the vice grip. The heel of Will’s palm dug into Mickey’s clavicle as he held him back from charging.

Ian breathed heavy. His heart was slamming into his ribs so hard he could feel it rattle all his insides. His hands were trembling as he rubbed the steady trickle of blood running sluggishly down his mouth and chin. He wanted to fucking punch and scream. He wanted to beat them bloody, but he was helpless to do so.

Will bent his knees so he was eye to eye with Mickey. “Say what you want about Gallagher. I should give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe you were assaulting the poor kid when you were drying humping his ass just then.” Mickey grabbed his wrist with his other hand and tried to pry him off. Will responded by grabbing Mickey’s forearm and pulling Mickey toward him. It was hard enough that Mickey’s head lolled back like his neck was cotton. Ian could hear his molars knock together.

He went to dive in and try to help, suddenly surged with bravery, but his effort was cut short when he was blocked by a large body and pushed back by his head. He was exhausted as much as he was enraged.

“You can’t speak for both of you though, little man, and you know it,” Will patronized Mickey through a primitive smile. His canine tooth bit into his lip as he watched as a terror flashed across Mickey’s face.

Mickey stopped struggling. His body shook. His watery eyes flicked across everyone’s face and his breathing became even more erratic.

“I’m n-not fucking gay,” he stuttered. His voice sounded so tight and thick that it startled Ian. He sounded nothing like himself.

“Awh.” Will cocked his head. He glanced over at Ian peeking out from behind Ace. It took him a second before his grin grew wide, the corners of his mouth nearly touching his earlobes. It sent chills down Ian’s spine. “Don’t tell me he doesn’t know,” he chided and sucked his teeth. “That’s just fucked, man. Cruel to let a kid keep hanging around you when he has no idea what cocksucking little fairy you are.”

A fairy? Ian thought. What gave these assholes the idea that Mickey was gay? What didn’t Ian know? They told each other everything. Most everything. Ian wouldn’t dream of clueing Mickey in on his own feelings. He guessed he understood that Mickey would take similar big secrets like that to the grave. Will got his kicks making kids shit their pants by any means possible, so maybe he was just fucking around. Maybe he had nothing on Mickey. Ian felt close to throwing up. He wished Lip were here, or Fiona, or fucking Iggy. Anyone that wasn’t as useless as him.

He thought all of that in the seconds it took before Mickey spit in Will’s face and ripped his arm out of his hand. It started a big commotion. The two other guys caught Mickey before he could dart out between them and forced him in front of Will again. Will roughly grabbed Mickey’s face in his hand, long thick fingers digging into his cheeks pressing the sensitive tissue inside his mouth against his teeth. His nails were buried into Mickey’s face and broke the soft skin. Mickey cried out and Will kneaded his face like dough, forcing him to look at him. “Your little mick friend doesn’t know I caught you inside the liquor store as recent as last fucking week,” Will growled. Mickey fought and pushed, but it was in vain. “No no, stay put,” he taunted through his teeth in a tone terrifyingly kind, but his voice was tight like a rubber band pulled taught. “Don’t you want to confess? Get it off your chest? Stay still, little guy.”

“I’m not!” Mickey cried, sounding resigned of putting on a tough exterior. He sounded like he was twelve years old, like he was supposed to sound and act all along—young and scared, not like his brothers or his dad, like a kid. “I didn’t! M’not!” he drew his eyebrows together high on his forehead and shook his head. His lips were trembling.

“Three times one of us has caught you, man,” Will lamented. “Fuck, it’s pathetic that you’re so willing to get your little ass beat.” Ian swallowed the bile in his throat and shoved at Ace’s abdomen. The Lurch wouldn’t fucking budge. “Three times you were peeping those—”

“No! I didn’t!” Mickey defended in hysterics. “No no no!”

“Those faggot magazines. Yeah, you did. Shut the fuck up,” Will demanded and gripped Mickey’s face when his wet cheeks made his hand slip. “I saw you standing there flipping through all secretive in the back, you little pole-smoking perv.”

“I wasn’t!” he insisted, his eyes were welling up with tears as he fought to turn his head and see Ian. “I wasn’t, Ian!”

“And you begged me not to tell when you saw that I fucking caught you. You remember that?”

“I didn’t fucking—arughhh!!” Mickey beat his fists anywhere he could reach and let out a loud frustrated sob.

“Hey, don’t forget when he was checking out my friends like a little creep at the diamond, man.” Ace laughed, guttural and ugly.

“No I fucking didn't! I was—"

“Fuck, how could I forget this little fudge packer sticking his tiny wood through the fence. He was panting over some shirtless dudes while his bonehead brothers were there on business, Jesus. You didn’t think we'd notice you? You’re the most obvious queer on this side of the river, dude. We’re not even near Boystown and I fucking know that.”

“I FUCKING DIDN’T!” Mickey screamed and fought and kicked with all his might. Tears made streaks through his makeup and his cheeks were bleeding in the spots where there were crescent-shaped marks. He managed to get a good angle on Will’s spread legs. He swung his foot up into Will’s crotch and nailed him right in the nutsack. Will grunted and sucked in like all the air entered his body when his sac crawled up into his stomach. He released Mickey.

Mickey weaved his way through the clump of men and tripped and fell on the ground, scraping his palms and hurting his knees. Will fell over and cried out in pain and the two nameless guys ran to him. Ace bent over and ripped a crawling Mickey from the pavement and flipped him so he landed hard on his back and smacked the back of his head.

Ace pinned Mickey down and straddle his small body. He didn’t waste any time before he started wailing on him, knuckles landing on his face making the sickening sound a slab of meat being tenderized.

Ian’s body was raging with hot sparks of adrenaline. In the time it took him to run to Mickey, Ace pressed all his weight on Mickey’s stomach and swung with his left fist, then his right, and beat on, swearing and grunting until blood flew from Mickey’s mouth and nose. Mickey’s eyes rolled the back of his head and he garbled incomprehensible pleads. He laid limp and made no move to stop Ace from grabbing a fist full of his hair and lifting his head with the intention to slam it down onto the concrete.

Ian let out an ear-splitting scream from the depths of his stomach, ran full force into Ace’s side, and tackled him onto the asphalt road.

He wouldn’t remember how he got the upper hand over someone as beefy as Ace McClure. Him, a five-foot-something, beanpole, fifth grader pinned him with his bony knees. An anger coursed through every inch of his body that was as indescribable as love. It felt like when his sister dropped out of school and lost all her friends to take care of the four of them. It felt like when his mom tucked him in, high as a kite, and forgot to take them to the ice skating rink the next day because she had no memory of her promise. It felt like when Mickey’s dad called them fags because Ian liked to hug Mickey goodbye. It felt like the day Mickey told him they couldn't hug anymore.

It felt like him not seeing Mickey until he was an inch taller and had lots of stories to tell on the first day of school. It felt like Fiona screaming at Frank when he refused to take Debbie to a Daddy-Daughter event at school and Debbie tearfully turned down Lip’s offer to take her instead. It felt like being separated from his family, put into foster care, and being peeped on through a hole in the wall of the bathroom by the foster father. It felt like no money and no food. It felt like being ignored in the middle of a chain of siblings, plagued with red hair and a crooked smile, and liking boys.

It felt like Halloween ending. Ian knew it was over now, officially, and he was furious.

He came out of his haze when he heard a voice calling over the commotion to his right. Ian took his nails out of the bloody lacerations he left on Ace’s face and fell off of him. There was no noise but the distant chatter from drunks around the block like they could not give two shits about some kids grappling. He looked over at an old pudgy woman with long silver hair. She wore an orange shirt with a jack-o-lantern on the front and a peeved expression on her worn face.

“You boys knock that off and get on!” she demanded. Despite her shouting, her voice was comically gentle in contrast to the commotion before. This must have been the lady with the full-size candy bars, Ian thought distractedly. He found it sort of funny in a sick way.

He took advantage of the brief distraction and rose to his feet. He darted like a bat out of hell past Will, still twisting on the ground surrounded by his two friends. Ace was unresponsive and bleeding steadily onto the road.

Ian didn’t know where his candy bag went and didn’t bother to look for it. It wasn’t important anymore, but he snatched Mickey’s and kneeled down beside him.

He looked like a small dead bug, splattered on a windshield. His face was shiny under the lamp post, leaking tears and dark crimson everywhere, covering what would probably be a crooked nose and split lip. Ian was nauseous and horribly sad, all in one sweeping whirlwind. Ian rubbed the tears off his own cheeks and turned Mickey’s head. Mickey’s eyes fluttered open after a moment but he could barely keep them from closing again. Ian saw there was a broken blood vessel in his right eye and he grimaced. “Fuck, Mickey. We gotta go. We gotta hurry, c’mon.” He pulled Mickey’s arm.

Mickey took a few seconds longer than Ian would have liked to stand up. As far as he knew, Mickey’s legs were fine and he could walk, but Mickey clutched his stomach like it was too much. His abdomen was tensing uncomfortably after he had all that weight pressing into him. He wrapped him up and carried half of his weight so they could move quicker.

They didn’t speak, and it was such a horrible contrast to how they were when walking towards Springfield a half hour ago.

Mickey left drops of blood on the ground and down the front of his overalls. He choked on his breath when he inhaled. His makeup was melted and his face had a fine layer of grime drying over it. Under it all he was probably swollen and discolored, tender open cuts were absorbing the filth caught inside them. Ian was only burdened with a smear of dried blood around his mouth and a sore nose. It was comforting that Mickey’s hard skull caused the injury and not one of those fucker’s fists.

Mickey’s arm didn’t leave his belly. He softly cried and let the snot strings fall where his blood and tears had gone, either because he didn’t give a shit about anything anymore or it hurt to sniffle, maybe both. Ian didn’t acknowledge it, even when they turned down the quiet stretch of Cermak and it was the only sound heard from there all the way to Homan. Mickey’s pillowcase sagged on Ian’s side and scraped the pavement all the way home.

Fiona wasn’t furious, she was something else entirely, probably that same kind of bone-deep anger Ian felt earlier when he tried to claw McClure’s eyes out. He wondered if Fiona had any words for it. He’d ask her far, far into the future when this had all blown over and Ian could bring it up without Fiona grounding him all over again.

She had already put the young ones to bed, so she tried to whisper-yell through the upstairs hallway, but it was no use. Mickey was a bloody massacre and Fiona was ready to blow the roof off after Ian explained what happened. He didn’t go in depth about the things those guys had allegedly seen Mickey do. He only mentioned that they called Mickey gay and hurt him. It was enough for now, he know she would pry later.

She dragged the boys up there and examined Ian’s nose in the bathroom. When she decided it was only swollen, she ordered him to strip down and get in the shower first while she sat Mickey on the toilet with a hefty first-aid kit.

Ian soaped his hair after the blood loosened and washed away off his face. He couldn’t ignore Mickey’s low weeping turning into loud, scared bawling as Fiona spoke soft but stern about letting her align his nose or they’d have to go the clinic, and Mickey hated doctors, and his dad would get called… he’d find out what all this was about and he’d believe what he heard. Ian refused to think about that outcome.

Ian peeked from the curtain to see Mickey crying and blinking at the ceiling. His tears ran down the sides of his face and caught on his earlobes. His hands were in tight fists at his sides. Fiona pressed her fingers on either side of his nose and spoke over his choked sobs. “Are you a brave boy, Mick? You’re gonna help me help you?” she asked and nodded to get him to nod back. “Yeah, you’re a brave kid. You are,” she promised, locking eyes with him so he knew she meant it.

“Yeah,” Mickey mewled and blinked. He sucked in a breath and squeezed his eyes shut. Fiona counted down from three and snapped his nose back into place with a soft pop and crunch. Mickey threw his head back and wailed at the pain. His hands flew up and hovered over his nose.

Ian closed the curtain and shut his eyes under water. He grabbed big handfuls of his wiry hair and pulled until his scalp burned. He wanted to wash the image of Mickey’s one bloodshot eye darting around the room as he whined around the blood coating his teeth.

Ian forced himself wash up instead of listening to Mickey’s pain ebb and flow. He scrubbed his skin until it was tender and pink. He stepped out as Fiona was pulling Mickey’s shirt over his head for him. Ian grabbed a used towel off the rod and wrapped it around his waist.

Fiona spared him a glance. “Pajamas and then bed, you hear me? You’re both going to bed immediately. I’ll talk to you in the morning and maybe then you can play your games and eat some candy,” she said, her voice thick with dismay and exhaustion. “Mickey will be in soon. I want you to wake me if he needs me, got it?”

Ian looked at Mickey who stood there in only his boxers. He hugged his bare torso and kept his puffy eyes aimed toward the ground. Ian frowned and tensed his jaw before he turned around to leave. He saw Lip standing in the doorway. He looked amused at the whole situation. Ian shoved passed him, pissed off. Lip chuckled and was hot on his heels.

“Dude, that’s crazy! You guys brawled with Will Rawlins and Company?”

“Fuck off,” Ian snapped. He saw Debbie and Carl standing with their door open, holding their blankets and rubbing their bleary eyes with their small fists. “Go to bed, guys,” Ian softened.

Lip followed him into the room and held his hands up in surrender. “I’m just saying, that’s a pretty badass subject for your first real fight.”

Ian was beyond irritated. “I broke Toby Milo’s leg last year,” he clipped, searching for a shirt and underwear in their cabinet. He tossed the clothes at Lip’s chest. “Leave those in the bathroom for Mickey.”

“Toby Milo, by some cruel gene pool misfortune, is anemic and half your size. _That_ was just plain ableism. You popped your cherry _tonight_ , little brother, and with Will Fucking Rawlins, man. Shit!” Lip clapped once, overjoyed.

Ian tossed a shirt of his own over his head and pulled on a pair of shorts. “Ace McClure,” he corrected.

Lip could have shit his underwear then. His jaw hit the floor and his eyes bulged out of his head. “Fucking McClure! The cockeyed meathead with the America First Committee member father, Ian! Fuck!” Lip let out a loud insane laugh and ran his fingers through his curls. “You’re crazy, man! You want to die before your nuts grow any hair?”

Ian swallowed and looked away, ears burning.

“All this, for what? Cause they called Mickey a homo?” He wiped a hand over his face and held it over his mouth. Ian winced like he’d heard nails digging into a chalkboard. “Well,” Lip snorted, “it’s not like he is. I catch the guy looking through my lesbian porn stash all the time. You shoulda dropped it and saved yourself months of looking over your shoulder. Jesus, you guys are morons. Why do you hang with someone who likes to pick fights with Nazis?”

Ian didn’t respond. He stared at the heap of mixed clothes inside the cabinet, biting the inside of his lip and squeezing the handle.

“I won't come to your guy’s rescue if you find yourself on Mcclure’s radar the next few weeks. Just take the beatings and move on. ‘Least you’re white, right?” Lip huffed one final laugh and exited with the clothes. He never came back that night and Ian later assumed he passed out on the sofa with a controller in his hand and another hand in his boxers, mid sac itch.

Ian turned off his light and flicked the lamp on. He shimmied under his threadbare blanket and left the thick green comforter for Mickey when he finished with his shower. It was his favorite. He never slept right without it draped over him in any room they crashed in. Ian held the corner of it in his hand. He ignored the throbbing of his bruised nose when it started to sting as a few tears dripped out of his eyes. They formed a small puddle on the sheet.

It was eleven o’clock and he wanted desperately to spend the last hour, rightfully, with Mickey, his Halloween partner in crime, watching him fall into a deep sleep while Ian silently apologized for being bad at keeping him safe and not being good enough to listen to his secrets.

Ian didn’t fall asleep, but he dozed for ten minutes, in and out of a yellow haze, the same color cast on his walls. Mickey’s breathing was labored, but other than that he came in quietly when Ian almost slipped past a doze and tumbled into sleep. Ian listened to his bare feet pad against the floor, and then silence.

He opened his tired eyes and looked over his shoulder to find Mickey standing there, sore and gloomy. His eyes held something heavy, something dark and coursing in a slow-moving pattern, like dense storm clouds, or a murky whirlpool—an impenetrable world of hurt illuminated by a single, flimsy lamp.

A red mark covered his right temple and reached around his eye like a claw. The white of his eye still looked pink and inflamed. Ian wondered if tomorrow Mickey would be able to open his lid at all.

His nose was swollen worse than Ian’s and strapped with medical tape, but it didn’t look all that crooked anymore. His lower lip was puffy and had a thin red laceration on the side that led up to a split on his upper lip. There were other dark, angry patches and welts on his face and a couple had tiny butterfly bandages taped onto them.

The skeleton paint was rinsed, aside from the creases where his nostrils and face met, right under his water lines, behind his ears, caught in his brows. The whole sight put together made Ian want to hold him until he healed so he didn’t have to hide his face and look down at his shoes until he returned to his regular old self. He looked like something broken haphazardly taped together again.

Mickey sighed, looking at the adjacent wall and rubbing a bandage that laid over a small cut on his cheekbone. He looked more uneasy now than Ian had ever seen him, and Ian was worried he wouldn’t know how to comfort him, or if he should at all. He didn’t want to piss him off. Mickey was always so good at this shit. With a crybaby friend like Ian, he had to learn how to cheer Ian up by using specific methods.

Mickey was a real best friend. Ian was only someone to hang out with. What could someone like that offer Mickey when he was feeling this low? A low he’d never seen him reach? Was Ian enough? Would he ever be?

“Lay down,” Ian said. He was going to roll with this. He’d do anything for Mickey, that included going into these sort of situations blind but giving it his all.

Mickey held his gaze and softened. He reached to pull Ian’s Monster Jam shirt off his body. That left him in Ian’s boxers and his own socks. He sheepishly crawled over Ian’s body and settled beside him nearest the window, under the green blanket. Before he covered his body, Ian caught sight of old bruises smattered across his ribs, and one nasty black one below his belly button. They weren’t from tonight.

They didn’t speak, they didn’t turn away from one another, but they didn’t sleep. Their bodies felt so heavy the center of the mattress could have sagged to the box spring. They were like two vessels filled with water. Something was pulling and pushing their atoms. A force that was all their own, like the steady rhythm of tiny sloshing waves. Maybe the bed was water, and they were sacks of sand sinking down, further and further into a bottomless ocean.

Ian was so tired, but he was more alert than he ever remembered feeling. Mickey watched him through heavy-lidded eyes. He was on his belly, hand curled in a gentle fist between them as he puffed strained breaths through his mouth. His nose had a soft whistle.

“S’not true,” Mickey finally spoke, quiet enough that if Ian wasn’t a foot away he’d be inaudible.

“Hmm?” Ian knew what he was referring to, obviously, but he was afraid if he nodded now that that would be the end of it. He wasn’t ready to let the topic go.

Mickey closed his eyes and exhaled. For a second Ian thought that was the end of it anyway, but then he spoke again. “The… the thing, that Will ‘nd Ace said. It’s not… they just like to mess with me. Joey, Colin, and them don’t get along real well. They never liked me.”

Ian buried the side of his face further into his pillow. “Okay.”

“Just wanted to fuck with us ‘cause they had nothing better to do. Call everyone those names. Make shit up.”

“I know.”

Mickey blinked. “So you didn’t believe them, right?”

Ian pushed his eyebrows together and shook his head. He didn’t, not really. If Mickey were curious about other boys, it wasn't perverted. Mickey wasn’t like that.

Mickey was a careful person, withdrawn and discrete. Sure, he was obnoxious about some things, about his video game skill, his batting average, his elaborate drawings of a dick jizzing on boobs. That’s when he wanted to be showy.

Mickey would have been careful if he were looking at other boys. He would have walked into the liquor store like a little errand boy, picking up chips for his brothers, and shot a glance at the nudie mags on the rack because it was only natural. Every kid’s eyes were pulled there like magnets.

He would have seen two men on the front of one, shoved in the back. He’d look around him to make sure no one was there, that no one was coming through the door. He’d hold it close to his body inside his hoodie. He’d barely flip through it. He’d be too embarrassed. His face would get red like a tomato and he wouldn’t understand how a lot of what he was seeing would work. He’d get caught because Will was sneaking up on him. Then Mickey would be struck with a fear he’d never felt before.

He was as lost as Ian was, maybe not about being gay, but about everything that came with growing up and deciding what felt right to him. In his venture, he was a victim of deadly curiosity. That was the most of it.

Ian didn’t look at him in the eyes, at the low yellow light illuminating shiny raw splits in his skin. He focused on the orange shadows of Mickey on the wall. Mickey’s red knuckles. The blanket covering the bruises on his torso. He could have guessed where they were from. The only time he’d seen Mickey close to as upset as he was tonight was when he came out his front door to meet Ian by his gate, the mornings after his dad had come home hammered.

Mickey started to squirm next to him when Ian stared for too long. He curled into a ball and pushed the blanket out so it wasn’t so tightly wrapped around his belly. Ian looked at his face, then. He was uncomfortable, worrying the cut on his lip. Before Ian opened his mouth to say that he wasn’t going to mention anything about his bruises, Mickey blurted: “I was in Indiana over the summer.”

Ian was nonplussed. “What? The whole summer?”

Mickey nodded. “‘Cept for the times me and dad came back with return shipments when I saw you. I wanted to hang out so, I volunteered to go with him and unload.” Mickey said the last part like it wasn’t a big deal, a mumbled throwaway comment. Ian felt warm and confused all at the same time.

“Why were you… “

He spoke slow and clear, like he was tasting his own words. “Dad runs coke to Polacy down there and he needs help getting it past the fuzz along the toll, so… you know. He needs people he can trust. We hide it and shit. Help load and unload the van,” he explained. Ian couldn’t comprehend all of it. He was pretty sure Mickey couldn’t either, but he got the basics and the rest was his dad making him believe he was doing something good and respectable. Ian was scared for him. He’d seen movies involving cartel. Those always ended in shootouts or a guy tied to a chair getting his tongue cut out of his head… and there were no _kids._

“Oh,” is all Ian could say. He abandoned him for that?

Mickey frowned and spoke into his pillow, avoiding bumping his nose. “Didn’t have a choice.”

“Sorry, Mick,” he whispered.

Mickey squeezed his eyes shut. “Fuck.” Ian blanched and sat up a little. “M’fine,” he assured while cupping his belly. He opened his eyes and they were red-rimmed and wet. “I’m sorry,” his voice was nasally, and it sounded like it was hard to talk around his tongue.

“What? For what? Are you sure you’re okay? I could get Fiona,” Ian rambled.

“No, Gallagher,” he huffed. “M’sorry I wasn’t around. Sorry for not calling enough.”

Ian ignored him. “You’re okay?”

Mickey didn’t say anything. His face suddenly twisted up. He couldn’t control his emotions anymore. He covered it with his hands and leaned into the pillow, then let out thick, trembling sigh. “No.”

“What hurts?”

“Nothing, fuck.”

Ian wasn’t so sure. He watched but didn’t touch him. “Well, what if—”

“I missed you,” Mickey choked.

Ian didn’t recall him ever saying that before. He was taken aback watching Mickey break down.

“I didn’t want to be there. I just missed you, man. Like every day. I didn’t wanna… “ he hiccuped. “My dad, I was scared. It was fucking horrible. I wanted to go home and I ruined the summer. We were gonna have fun but then he… fucking beat the snot out of me and I had to. I missed your fucking birthday!” he chastised himself and groaned.

Ian's stomach was in tight knots and his chest squeezed. This is when he had to channel Mickey’s comforting abilities and use them. This is when he had to be as good a friend and not come up short. Neither of them could afford it. He settled in closer to him and placed his hand next to Mickey. His finger almost brushed his forearm. Without much consideration, he decided to stick it out and trace an inch of skin down his elbow, and kept tracing. “Hey,” Ian whispered, “I missed yours, too.”

Mickey pouted like it was the end of the world. “Yeah, 'cause of _me_.”

“No,” he promised, “it’s not your fault.”

Mickey rolled defiantly onto his back and stared at the ceiling. This would be the time Mickey would call Ian dumb for being so sappy and to shut up, to admit Mickey was in the wrong. After he had spilled his guts about missing Ian, he had no room to snap at him for going soft. The thought gave Ian the confidence to say: “I missed you, too.”

They were quiet. Ian stared at the bumpy slope of Mickey’s nose and his inflamed lips. They parted and pressed together like he was gearing up to say something important, but he kept deciding against it. Ian wished Mickey hadn’t banned hugs because he’d give anything to let him know everything was okay without having to say the words and risk Mickey not believing him. He’d rather him feel it. “I’m sorry I ruin everything,” he finally said.

Ian shook his head.

“I do. Or, if it’s not me it’s someone else _because of me_ , because I’m around, because of what I can’t do or say, or what I already did,” he rambled. “We always get into trouble because of me. Or we can’t hang out. I get grounded or forced to go somewhere for months at a time. I… I get us hurt,” his voice cracked.

It stunned Ian that Mickey felt that bad about himself. As bad or worse than Ian felt about himself sometimes. He looked up to Mickey so much. He’d always be the stronger of the two, the more fearless. The one that always knew what to do and how to keep them afloat when things got messy. When Ian came to him, upset that Frank ignored him one too many times that day because he reminded him most of Monica. When Mickey got harassed by school administration for stealing the Change for Change coins because he was a Milkovich, and why wouldn’t he? He held them together, took on both his and Ian’s problems. Ian had shameless hero worship for the boy. He was pretty sure that even if one day they stopped knocking on each other’s door and sitting under their tree at the dugouts after school, he’d have that steadfast admiration for Mickey Milkovich until the day he died.

“You’re my best friend,” Ian said easily. “I don’t care about getting in trouble, or getting my ass kicked, if it’s for you. I get into shit anyway, can’t help that I guess. If you’re not my partner in crime, then it’d be Lip,” he smiled gingerly. “And when you’re gone, it sucks, and I wish you were with me, cause nothin’ is as fun... but when you come back I’m still your friend, Mickey,” he insisted. “I don’t want you to think I won’t be. I’m not mad at you. I’m not going to leave you, not the best friend I ever had,” he whispered the last part like it was only meant for his own ears.

Mickey stared at him with big eyes, the blue storm in them almost dissipating in the low lit room.

He turned on his side and scooted closer to Ian. Only a few inches of his sheet separated their faces. Ian’s cheeks stung and tingled where Mickey’s breath blew against them. The hairs on his neck stood up and a chill seized his sides.

Mickey smelt like Ian’s strawberry smoothie shampoo and petroleum jelly. If he inched closer he could kiss him, but he was powerless to move. His body was lead and Mickey was fog as light as air fitting between every crevice of him, pulling him toward the open window, and then out to the moon.

Mickey looked back and forth between his lips and his eyes. When he was sure Ian wasn’t going move away, wasn’t going to hurt him, wasn’t going to get up and leave, he wiggled closer. The tips of their noses touched. Ian’s stomach was a wave pool and his arms were shaking under the blanket. His knee jerked against Mickey’s thigh.

Mickey barely pressed into his mouth. His lips locked over Ian’s upper one. Ian didn't get to press his lower under Mickey’s, or register how soft and warm it felt, or feel the hard cut on Mickey’s lip transfer the smallest amount of blood onto him. Mickey pulled back in a split second to press their foreheads together. Ian tried not to pant, but he’d been holding his breath. A huge rush ran through him like he’d missed a step on the stairs and tumbled down the rest of them. Sparks went up his jaw and temples.

Ian made a small noise in the back of his throat. He was too overwhelmed to control himself and his visible shudder. “You… you like boys,” Ian breathed.

Mickey yanked himself away as if there’d been something crawling up his leg and it spooked the shit out him. He shoved Ian and Ian’s shoulder blades wacked against his bedside table. “Ow! What the fuck, Mickey?” Ian fumed.

“I. Don’t.” Mickey condemned, his face twisted in fury and his eyes boring into Ian’s. “I’m not… I’m not! What don’t you get?!” he turned away, yanking the blanket with him childishly and scooting until his nose was nearly squashed against the wall, leaving enough room to build a canal between them.

Ian was so confused his head started throbbing. The high from the kiss plummeted. He tried not to panic, realizing they took five steps backward, but he was also pissed off, and Ian’s irritation took the reigns. “You kissed me!”

“That doesn’t mean anything!” Mickey huffed.

“How can—”

“I can’t just fucking thank you for being nice to me?” His voice broke and grew softer towards the end. He knew as well as Ian that was a shit excuse, that boys didn’t thank each other like that. He ducked his head down his hands to stave off his sadness and then let out a soft strangled cry, his whole body rocking under the blanket.

Ian’s anger slipped away and was replaced was something worse: desperation. “Mickey, it’s okay,” he choked, if he started crying, that would be the end of it, he would have failed Mickey. He had to be stronger. “I still mean what I said. I’ll be your friend no matter what.”

“But I’m not,” he defended weakly.

“You’re not,” Ian repeated. “Okay, but just… if you were, like if… you had one leg, or if you were blind, if you were... _gay_ ,” he struggled. 

"Shut up," he pleaded.

“I’m still... everything I said, I still mean.”

“M’not.”

“I know.”

Mickey whined until the embarrassment lessoned. His breath evened out after five minutes or so. Ian had thought he fell asleep, and he felt terrible.

“I don’t want to be,” Mickey had whispered. The words were spoken like they were dust motes but their meaning was as dense as the hot air they floated in.

He turned around to face Ian, on their bellies together, like always. His face was pink and damp, eyelashes clumped together in soft spikes and snot drying under his nostrils with leftover flakes of blood. 

Ian wanted to tell him about himself, about how he thought of boys, too, about how he wanted that kiss more than he wanted anything, _anything_ —and there were still so many Yu-Gi-Oh! card sets out there he had yet to buy and trade. He wanted to tell him he wasn’t alone. If he was confused, if he wanted to fix himself as much as Ian did, if he felt as guilty. Ian would be there for him.

Later, he’d still never be sure why he didn’t say something to him that night. Would it have changed everything? Would it have made everything worse? Would he have lost their friendship that night because Mickey wasn’t ready to know about Ian yet? Not when he was this fragile. The best he could come up with is that at that moment, telling him wouldn't matter.

Mickey would take it on as the days went by. He’d learn and grow and know about Ian when it really meant something. Only then could Ian tell him he loved him.

“Don’t think about it,” Ian muttered. “We can just sleep.”

Mickey sighed and deflated into the mattress, like everything that happened today was mostly excavated from his body, mostly…

“Was it a shitty Halloween? I mean, all of it?” he sniffled and rubbed the last of his tears away. Ian’s heart swelled. He cracked a goofy smile. It felt funny on his face with his sore nose.

He didn’t even deliberate. “Nah. It’ll go down in the history books: _Most Badass Halloween Ever; the one where Mickey Milkovich cracked my nose and then almost died on the sidewalk, but rose up like fucking… Lazarus._ ”

Mickey offered a sweet, swollen smile. “You were the badass one. Dove for that fucker McClure like Jet Lee and almost tore his fat head off his neck. I saw that,” Mickey praised. “My hero. Bravest pope I know,” he added and watched him with a loving glimmer as he pulled the blanket over his mouth. It struck Ian surprised. Butterflies danced inside his chest and tickled his stomach.

Ian decided once and for all to grow at least one hair on his nuts and chance a quick kiss on Mickey sore cheek. Just one. Just a ‘thank you’ kiss, as Mickey called it earlier. Ian pressed his lips against his warm skin and sunk back into his spot. Mickey flushed and blinked owlishly over the blanket. He raised an eyebrow. He looked upset. He looked like he was gonna launch Ian across the room, but he didn’t.

What Ian was expecting to be a closed fist knockout was two hands pressing his body right up against Mickey's. Mickey buried his head in Ian’s chest and wrapped his arms around his torso. Ian’s eyes almost popped out of his head he was being squeezed so hard by Mickey’s soft biceps. Mickey frowned into his shirt and held them like he was waiting for the glue between their skin to dry and sighed. Ian was electrified by that indescribable love. Right now, Mickey’s love was like the ending to a perfect day and the feeling of not being afraid of tomorrow.

“Sorry about your candy, Crimson Chin. You can have some of mine,” Mickey mumbled sleepily against Ian’s nipple.

“Deal,” he chuckled and poked Mickey’s head with the chin he loved to mock so much. “Hey, you wanna play Mortal Kombat in the morning? You be Sheeva and kick my ass like you wanted?” (He wouldn’t kick his ass, no way, but he liked to give Mickey false confidence to throw him off his game when Ian pulled out all the cheats he’d learned since they last played. Buttface was going _down._ )

Mickey snuffled into his pec and groaned. “Don’t want to be Sheeva,” he opened one eye and then clamped it shut, his freckles grew vibrant against a blush like Ian’s always did. “Wanna be Johnny Cage.”

Ian smiled into his hair and it stayed there long after they fell asleep. Even when Mickey rolled on his back, he held on to Ian’s wrist so neither of them floated away from each other in the middle of the night.

**Author's Note:**

> leave me a comment it can honestly just say "cool" i live for validation or shoot me an anon on [tumblr](http://witchmickey.tumblr.com) if that's easier. OR just talk to me about mickey there!!! love that man so much!!!
> 
> You may have noticed I made this a series so if you got kid ian-mickey story ideas I sure would luv 2 hear


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